


Ode to The Fallen or How The Lonely Man Sleeps

by sweetlemondrops



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Tragedy, i srsly don't know how i should describe this, let's hope there's a killer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlemondrops/pseuds/sweetlemondrops
Summary: "It burns him like there is a fire going on within him, there is a forest in him and it's consummming every piece of wood. He feels as if there is a group of tiny human beings commiting arson to his body, pouring on gasoline while he gasps and cries out."Something that will change them all forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, first off, " internet shenanigans" is gonna take a while to upload, My entire file just went ka-poot and decided that it felt better doing nothing, so all the chapters are going through a rewriting process.
> 
> anyway, i haven't actually got a complete story arch yet, so if you guys have any idea at all, of where you see this going, please message me, i will be eternally grateful.
> 
> anyways, enjoy!

It's dark, like night.

 

All grey tones and blue vision.

 

But, it seems _off_.

 

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock turns, swivelling his entire body as he goes, an awkward mass of limbs and curly hair . For some reason, the room is spinning, it also smells like incense and is so very, very dim. There is a thin outline of a man standing in front of him.

 

_John._

 

John can't seem to find him though, even though he's there.

 

_Right there. In front of him._

 

“Look, John! Over here, you imbecile!”, Sherlock wants to shout, “ you moron, Stop yelling! You're being distracting.” The end of the sentence ends up like a whine, his face twisted with annoyance from being woken up from his mind palace.

 

John ignores him.

 

“sherlock?”

 

Frustrated, he waves his arms, the entire length of his thin tall frame stretching as he tip-toes, polished soles squeaking in the middle of the living room.

 

“John!”

 

But John doesn't seem to have heard him, frowning and stopping momentarily in front of the fireplace. He continues yelling, though. Undeterred, like a cat calling for her kittens to return home before nightfall.

 

The set of pipes the man has must be impressive, each new “SHERLOCK!” being louder and louder, until it's a hoarse, gravelly yell.

 

He's dressed in his oatmeal jumper, the one that makes him look the snuggliest, the one which makes sherlock wondes what would happen if he buried his face into that warm expanse, all cushion and smelling of John.

 

No.

 

Wrong.

 

Delete and reaccess situation.

 

Now is not the time.

 

Sherlock is confused, if for a moment. Has john gone _blind?_ How can he not notice the 6 foot detective standing in the middle of the bloody room. There is, in fact, no other obstacle in the vicinity. The chairs and sofas and clutter have all been moved to the side,blocking the windows (thus the darkness of the room explained), save for john's chair in the middle of the room, where sherlock was sitting in.

 

Something is horribly wrong.

 

Is this an exorcism?

 

Sherlock walks towards him, gingerly. What the fuck is going on? John just seems more desperate than ever, the lines on his face taut and the frown lines emerge.

 

Sherlock stares at his friend, shocked.

 

John is no longer flatmate, nor is he Dr watson; he's become the soldier, the killer, the hunter.

 

“Sherlock...” he murmurs.

 

Suddenly, john is fading, fading, fading.

 

Sherlock feels fear. “John?”

 

John's features morph until they are no longer recognisable. John is melting into the ground, a lump of liquid seeping into the floorboards, like a candle, like a cube of ice.

 

John is a snowman in spring, a snowman who melts into his bones and organs until he is a puddle, a meaningless puddle that indicates nothing of his existance, only a muddy puddle of slush that evaporates into the sky, nothing left.

 

Sherlock is scared, it feels exactly like the incident with the hound. He is enveloped in fear, adrenaline coarsing in his veins. His entire body has gone cold. It's freezing. It's all blue and dark and cold and clammy.

 

His voice is gone, his heart, also gone.

 

John is disappearing.

 

There is nothing left, he is subjected to defeat, the internal struggle his wits is massive, at the same time, claustriophobic.

 

He loses, there was not much of a fight to begin with .

 

Sherlock stares, helpless, as John cries out, “Sherlocawkk?” his mouth, his vocal chords, his tongue is liquid, it's fluid, it's running down his melting chest.

 

He feels like exploding.

 

Wait! He feels like shouting. He wants john to stop, to not drain away,

 

Sherlock hurries, desperate to preserve him, John!

 

But it's no use, he slips past the detective's fingers. His blood on his hands. Sherlock is screaming, crying for help. He feels tears running down his face, mingling into the taste of salt and sweat in his mouth.

 

He wails, watching as his best friend, only friend, washes down the wood. He doesn't scream like he thought he would, instead he gives a stangled, choked sob, like somebody's rammed a knife in his throat he can't quite swallow. A wretched cry, escapes his mouth as he covers it with his palm. It rivals the raw stabs of pain in his heart. He feels himself shake, trembling slightly even, as the tears make their way downwards, dripping down the curve of his nose.

 

He doesnt bother wiping them, there is still plenty to go.

 

Sherlock watches and cries as all that is left of john is gone and the only thing left behind is a human heart.

 

John's heart.

 

Still beating, wet. It's artries and ventricles pumping out bits of blood, like it's crying for help, a fish out of water. It's gasping its last breaths.

 

Sherlock crouches and reaches out, his face is all covered in tears and mucus, shivering. Trying to take it into his grasp. Trying to save it, dammit! Trying to protect what's left, what was, essentially, john's being.

 

No.

 

But as soon as he clutches it, it bursts.

 

No.

 

No. No.

 

What happens next is a wet 'sploosh', covering sherlock in john's blood. Sherlock stares in shock, his mind is unusually silent. Someone has switched it off, his engine has halted.

 

He feels empty, like his last breath was stolen from him and the gap in him makes him feel like even a wisp of a wind could breeze him away. He is dripping red.

 

It's warm.

 

No, wrong.

 

It's hot, piping hot.

 

And it burns him. It burns him like there is a fire going on within him, there is a forest in him and it's consummming every piece of wood in him. He feels as if there is a group of tiny human beings commiting arson to his body, pouring on gasoline while he gasps and cries out. He feels pain and wonders if this was what john felt, moments before, if he was in agony whilst under the awareness that he was melting.

 

But Sherlock wasn't melting.

 

No, he was having his heart burnt out.

 

_I will burn the heart out of you._

 

And then he wakes up.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

“Sherlock!” ( Urgent. Man. Smoker. Authorative figure. Middle-aged.)

 

“SHERLOCK! Bloody wake up!!'

 

It's Lestrade, Gilligan Lestrade. Why is he here?

 

Sherlock opens his eyes, his neck sore. He looks up from the couch, it's 7:13pm.

 

Gerald is looking at him in horror, “Sherlock!”

 

“Not now, Lestrade. ” He needs a few moments to compose himself after this nightmare. The things his mind palace could come up with. Extraordinary.

 

It looked- felt real, too real.

 

John was out. Pub, yes, he said. Didn't delete that.

 

He inwardly shuddered. Logical, for fear to manifest itself after such a shocking ordeal. No matter. His should call a cab. Clear the mind. Go for a walk. Whiskey was preferable.

 

Sherlock stands up, and walks towards the coat hanger, reaching for his coat and scarf.

 

Wait.

 

Stop. George is here.

 

“what is it, Lestrade? You have exactly 30 seconds.”

 

The man was tiresome.

 

Gunther stammers, his face pale, “ It's John. I- I came round for a drink and he said to meet here at 7pm. He's sleeping, I thought. He was on the couch, lying still. But he wasn't, sherlock. It's-not breathing- he's- dead.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments much appreciated. Thanks for reading! LOVE YA'LL!


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